


If there's something strange in your neighborhood

by DancingTurtles



Category: Captain America (Movies), Ghostbusters - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awesome Phil Coulson, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 08:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7039906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingTurtles/pseuds/DancingTurtles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ghostbusters AU: Clint has a problem, and he knows who to call. </p><p>Well, he actually doesn't, but he's still gonna try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If there's something strange in your neighborhood

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired from an Avengers kink meme prompt:  
> Team, Ghostbusters Fusion - Clint/Coulson, hurt!Clint - crack-ish  
> (Anonymous)  
> 2015-09-26 05:23 pm (UTC)  
> Phil regrets letting Tony talk him into this ridiculous idea.
> 
> Now they have no money, own a delapidated firehouse with a barely legal arc reactor powered containment unit in the basement, and Thor's mischevious brother keeps dropping in unannounced.
> 
> But when potential client Clint Barton shows up on their doorstep, too scared to go home (and mortified to admit it, because he's a cop) Phil thinks just maybe this is the best idea Tony's had ever.
> 
> At least until that shit gets real and he's in danger of losing Clint before he even gets a chance to take him out to dinner.  
> (Reply) (Thread)

 

The yellowpages, Clint found out, were not the place to look for ghostbusters. Neither was Craigslist; this was especially true when it turned out that ‘ghostbusting’ was some kind of code word for a weird sex thing. As was ‘exorcism’, ‘seancing’, and ‘purification’.

Well, lessons learned.

Only a few days after his google search, a business card for the exact type of service he’d needed was left in his mailbox at the station. No company name, no email; just a phone number with an unfamiliar area code—like a goddamn spy movie. He thought it was a mistake until he’d called and listened to a voice on the other end calmly describe every single weird thing that had happened to Clint since the problem started.

So Clint had found himself downtown on his day off, staring up at an old firehouse with crumbling red brick walls and pigeon shit all over the sidewalk. He’d almost talked himself out of going in, except that would mean resorting to the final option of setting his apartment on fire.

Once inside the secretary gave him a long onceover over her glasses, then shoved him in the direction of the manager’s office.  

The manager, Mr. Phillip J. Coulson, was a tidy, calm man with a tie that matched his socks and a receding hairline. He reminded Clint of a teacher, though he changed that in his head to car salesman after Coulson began his pitch.

 

* * *

 

 

“You’ll find that our rates are quite reasonable. Here,” Coulson handed him a glossy brochure. On the glossy cover was a hand-drawn cartoon of a ghost, covered with a neat red X. “On the back you’ll find details about our tiered pricing scale, as well as information about our frequent customer rewards points.”

“…frequent customer?” Clint flipped open the brochure. His gaze was drawn to the middle paragraph detailing a device used to remove ghouls from possessed persons, which vaguely resembled a vacuum cleaner. He idly wondered where the pointy end of it went, then clenched up.

“Oh, yes. Once you get a…taste for it, well, you just can’t stay away,” Coulson said with a smile. Clint wasn’t a fan of his word choice there, but nevertheless he kept flipping through the brochure.

“And you’ll guarantee the removal? No do-overs?”

“Mr. Barton,” Coulson steepled his fingers beneath his chin and pinned Clint down with a stern look. “Here at SHIELD, we _pride_ ourselves on the quality of our work. Rest assured, if you hire us to remove this ghost, then we will do so with a 100% guarantee.”

“Or my money back?” He held the brochure out.

Coulson waved Clint off when he tried to return the brochure. “Please, Mr. Barton, that is yours to keep. Something tells me that we’ll be seeing quite a bit of you.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mea—”

Coulson held up a hand, silencing Clint. “Tell me more about how the problem first started. With as much detail as you can.”

He sat back, roughly exhaling. It had been a long two weeks, but if these weirdos could help…”Okay. So my partner and I, we’re cops, we’re busting in on this drug dealer, right? Smalltime, but sometimes the small guys help you find the big guys.” Coulson nodded encouragingly. “So we do the whole ‘1-2-3’, I kick in the door, then--”

 

* * *

 

They were greeted by an empty hallway, dark and covered in dust. Clint had frowned—intel said this was a hotspot, but it looked like the place had been abandoned for years. He angled his scope up, shining light on the cobweb-strung ceiling.

Wilson tapped down with his gloved left hand onto the barrel, drawing Clint’s attention back. They proceeded down the hall, leaving a guy to watch the door, Clint in front. It didn’t get any better as they checked out the kitchen, living room, and adjoining bathroom—all clearly unused for years.

Then, jackpot—a quick succession of footsteps from the master bedroom. Clint took the lead point and approached the door. The handle gave easily under his hand, and Clint moved in, shining the torch ahead of him only for the spotlight to land on—

“What the fuck?”

Some kind of…man, Clint guessed, except not because he could see through the guy’s torso to the stained wallpaper on the other side, was inside. It was staring up at some kind of portrait on the wall. While Clint stared, Wilson came up behind him, shining his torch in.

The…whatever it was, turned around. The face, for lack of a better word, broke out into a grin.

“Holy shit,” Wilson said.

The thing dove at Clint, who yelped at toppled backwards when it _passed through him_ , leaving a layer of slime over the belly of his uniform. Every sphincter in his body seized up at the sensation—his hands clenched, firing his gun into the carpeted floor. His radio bust out with sharp commands, yelling—‘shots fired’, from Wilson—the thing was swooping around the room like a goddamn bat—two more guys from downstairs burst in with weapons locked and loaded--

 

* * *

 

“…So by the time everyone’s got their shit together, the ghost is gone and suddenly I’m in trouble for discharging my firearm.” Clint rolled his eyes. “And of course no one believes me about the ghost, not even my partner who saw the damn thing.”

“Denial is a powerful thing.” Coulson reached into his desk to pull out some paperwork. Clint got a brief look at its contents: “Is that Paranorman?”

“Ah.” Coulson followed his gaze. “Research materials.”

Clint paused. “But it’s a cartoon—”

“Research materials.” Coulson smiled genially. “And what happened after these events?”

 “Uh…well, that little fucker followed me back to my apartment, and it won’t leave.”

“Have you personally attempted to remove it?”

“Yeah, but every time _I_ try to get rid of it, it sets some kind of booby trap, or it slimes me, or whatever other thing it comes up with!” Clint exhaled heavily. It felt good to let things out.

“Well, ghost-removal doesn’t take well to DIY attempts. We always recommend that clients call in the professionals as the first-line, rather than as a last resort,” Coulson said with a stern look on his face.

“Well, you’re the professionals, right? Please, tell me that you can help me.” Clint leaned forward, looking him in the eye.

“Oh, not me.” Phil hit a button on the righthand edge of the desk. “That’s what I hire people for.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next day Clint was hanging around the apartment at 10AM, having requested the day off work to let the SHIELD guy in. He’d asked about getting a sooner appointment (even better, for someone to come with him _right that moment_ ), but Coulson had stared at him blandly then tapped the business hours sign on the wall.

So, he waited.

About twenty minutes after ten, a beat-up old white minivan pulled up, coming to an idle along the sidewalk. On the side was printed ‘Ghostbusters’, with ‘SHIELD’ in small print below. He jerked backwards, almost falling off the porch, when the engine died with a bang and the driver’s door swung open, ending at a crazy angle.

Muffled cursing, then a guy fell out of the driver’s seat. He was weighed down by a giant vacuum cleaner strapped to his back, glowing a threatening green. His hat, at least, matched the van: dingy white with the same logo printed neatly across. The…ghostbuster, Clint guessed, rolled back onto his feet and made his way to Clint, coming to a pause a few feet away.

Clint checked the guy out. He was pretty sure his outfit was a onesie. On his way back up he made eye contact—and goddamn, this guy was hot.

“Are you Clint Barton?” he drawled, shifting his gear more heavily onto his right shoulder. Clint’s gaze was drawn to his left hand—a prosthetic.

“That depends—are you the exterminator that Coulson promised me?”

“The name’s Bucky, actually.” The guy flashed him a rakish grin, looking him up and down. “Bucky Barnes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Gotta love the crack--please review!


End file.
